It was neither anything so simple as Bertram Diebold's
cold pizza dinner weaving spice trails through his
intestines, nor anything so complex as some glowing,
spectral presence tapping messages against the little
window beside his bed that set the dream into motion; all
was still, and the dream simply began:
A crowded city bus... dirty... loud... A multi-lingual din
raked the stale air around him as his fellow passengers
chatted away in frantic staccato bursts, in song-like phrases
with too many vowels, in rolled R's and wide gestures that
never quite blended - a cacophony without rhythm or
meaning that stung his ears, that made his teeth hurt.
Bertram turned away from the motley assemblage of
bag-ladies and housewives, of long-haired boys in blue
jeans and old blind men restlessly tapping their canes to
scan the street beyond through the dust-caked window. The
bus rounded a corner, and he spotted a street sign; the
letters danced and flowed in his vision, refusing to form
into intelligible words.
From beside him, spoken English, a woman's voice: Pay
attention, you fool!
Bertram spun away from the window. "What...?"
He was alone in the seat - but now, clutched tightly in
his right hand was a slim, hardbound book. He scanned its
gleaming cover, but, again, the letters of its title flowed like
mercury off the page.
Pay attention to what?
He tried to set the book onto the empty seat beside him,
but it refused to leave his hand. He folded his arms across
his chest, pushing the book deep under his jacket and out of
sight.
Again the sourceless voice: Just pay attention.
"Fine," he said aloud. He straightened in the seat,
cleared his throat. "I will."
